34 Pieces of You (3 page)

“Jake?” Mom stepped forward. The rings around her eyes hovered like dark clouds, proof she’d always be one step away from a hangover. Sarah stepped forward too. And when our eyes met, I was reminded of the night before, when she’d come to me, said she wanted to talk, her hands buried in the pockets of her cutoff jeans. How the shape of her lean thighs beneath the denim made me want to touch her, but I didn’t, not even when she placed a
confident hand in the space between my shoulder blades.

Sarah was like a roller coaster. Just when I thought the ride was over, she’d peak again, another hill rising against a dimming blue sky. Each time, the hill would be bigger and scarier than the last. Still, there were days when I wanted her fingers running lightly over my forearm or her hand rubbing that tender spot between my shoulders. And I’d recall with clarity the feeling of her palm against the back of my neck. The way she would gently press in circular motions until my head fell forward and I felt—just for that moment—a complete sense of surrender.

Maybe that was why the night before, when she’d placed her hands on me, I’d let myself take in the first waves of her touch. But as her voice grew more confident, as her belief in the possibility of us solidified, I’d moved beyond her reach. The truth was, I didn’t trust her. How could I? Even right now, after everything that had happened between us in the last five years, she stood there, holding my best friend’s hand.

Ellie kicked me lightly, and I looked back at her. The soft spots beneath her eyes were blue from lack of sleep. She pulled her wrist away and said, “Tell me you didn’t, Jake. You promised you wouldn’t.”

“Do what?” I said, but I knew she was talking about Sarah.
She never wanted me near her. Never wanted me to
fuck it up
. Because that’s the other truth: I wasn’t exactly nice to girls.

“Come on, Jake.” She looked down at the grass, so that her long blond hair fell across her face. I could tell she was crying. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen her cry. But if I had to pinpoint an exact period, I’d say it was the summer she was eleven and she came to me, hands trembling between my palms, and told me what Evan, our first step-asshole, had done to her.

“Come on, Ellie.” I stepped closer but didn’t touch her like before. “Don’t.”

She laughed and wiped her eyes with the underside of her tank top, leaving streaks of black mascara on the thin fabric. She said, “God!” Then louder, “God! Look at this. I’m such a fucking baby.” Her tears came down a little harder.

I pulled her closer and held her until she stopped squirming. The side of my neck grew wet from her crying.

She whispered, “If I need you, you’ll come back for me?”

“Yes, of course.” I pulled her in as close as I could, and wondered if she understood how much I had watched out for her these last ten years, since our father left. How sometimes I still had nightmares about Evan’s hands touching her, hurting her.

She said, “You promise me. If I need you, you’ll come back to me.”

“Always, Ellie. Always.”

Behind us, Sarah watched. And when our eyes locked, I felt that pain I got whenever she was around. That pain of knowing that sometimes the things I want aren’t the things I need, but not knowing, exactly, how to let those things go.

My uncle honked the horn and revved the engine. Ellie took a step back. She said, “You better go.” Then she looked away from me and pushed another cigarette between her lips. I lit it for her, watching as she tucked her hair behind her ears. Some strands still clung to her damp face. She didn’t look at me, but she said, “I love you, Jake.”

I looked at the ground. I said, “I know, Ellie. I know.”

This h
o
use is l
o
nely.
I want . . .

AFTER. JANUARY.

After Sarah came home from the hospital, Mom moved her from our shared bedroom into the guest room on the first floor. Now I spend a lot of time alone, thinking. I think a lot about Sarah, a lot about Ellie, a lot about me, who I am, and who I’m meant to be.

My mom thinks that we—her daughters—all have types. Sarah is the reactive type. Meg is the silly type. Mattie is the sweet and cuddly type. I’m the thoughtful type. Or at least that’s what Mom always says:
Jess, you’re just so thoughtful!
How did I end up with such a thoughtful daughter?

Still, before Ellie died, I liked to do other things besides think. I liked to hang out in front of my house or go to the movies or run
around crazy with my best friend, Lola. Before Ellie died, I liked to pretend that I was someone else, someone who wasn’t so . . . thoughtful. But now it seems like there’s no use in pretending.

I think when someone you know dies, something inside of you changes—like some supernatural creature came into your room and took his big, supernatural hands and rearranged your entire DNA.

I tried to explain this to Lola once, but she just looked at me like I was crazy. Then she asked me why I was suddenly so waiflike, like a shorter version of Kate Moss. She actually took out a pen, asked me to describe my diet
secrets
, and said that no matter how many miles she ran, her curvaceous hips wouldn’t shrink fast enough to fit into the size 2 jeans she imagines herself wearing.

I waited a few minutes to answer. Then I told her the truth: “My diet’s simple, so simple you don’t even have to write it down. Just throw up after most meals, and sometimes don’t eat at all.”

I had never said this out loud, so I gave us both time to process the seriousness of my words, but she just thumped me on the head with her fuzzy blue pen and said, “That’s brilliant!” And, after that, she never mentioned it again. Although I noticed she lost five pounds in the next month.

In total, I’ve lost fifteen pounds, but except for Lola, nobody’s
asking why. I suppose that’s because Mom’s too busy worrying about Sarah, Dad’s too busy worrying about Mom, and Meg and Mattie are too busy worrying about themselves to notice my incredible disappearing act.

Besides, it’s not a big deal. I’m okay. I don’t have a problem. I definitely don’t have an eating disorder. I don’t think I look fat. I don’t want to be this skinny. I don’t think I look good this skinny, but I can’t help it. I can’t change it.

When I eat food—that is, if I feel like eating at all—it won’t stay down. There’s just not enough room. I guess that’s what happens when your belly is filled with secrets.

* * *

Ever since Sarah came home from the hospital, there’s been a lot of tiptoeing. We tiptoe around conversations in the dining room when we all sit down to family dinners. We tiptoe through the hallway, in case Sarah might hear our footsteps clunking past the guest-bedroom door. Even now I tread as softly as I can. Lola follows, laughing.

“Why are you walking so slow?” She bumps me from behind, and I fall into a table with the slightest thud. The noise shocks me. I have this irrational thought of shoving her face into the wall, but I push that feeling away—mark it as another typical Lola thing not worth thinking about.

When we hit the second-floor landing, I pause to take a deep breath.

“Jesus,” Lola says, “are we going to stand here forever?” She nudges my shoulder until I start walking again. I think of something sharp to say, but when I open my mouth, I only explain. “I told you. We have to be quiet downstairs because of Sarah.”

Lola says, “I don’t understand why you have to be quiet for her at all.” Then she dives onto my bed and tosses all my stuffed animals—the ones she wants me to throw away because fifteen-year-olds shouldn’t have toys—onto the floor. My favorite, Mr. Big Butt Bear, stares at me accusingly.

Before, I might have yelled at Lola, but now I only pick up Mr. Big Butt Bear and sit with him on the carpet, my back against the bedroom door. Downstairs another door creaks open, and I realize we’ve woken Sarah. The guilt sets in immediately. It’s a trait I inherited from my father. Sarah says you can get him to do anything if you make him feel guilty enough.

Below are scratching noises, like Sarah’s dragging a chair back and forth. It’s weird, because the more I listen to the sounds and start to identify them, the more I can picture what’s going on.

In the movie in my head, Sarah drags a dining-room chair through the living room and places it underneath the archway
that leads into Dad’s den. She stands on the chair, reaching her hand up to feel along the decorative molding. She searches for the key to the liquor cabinet but doesn’t find it there. After the hospital, Dad moved the key. I saw him do it.

Now she drags the chair back into the dining room. She paces the living room. She lifts up porcelain figurines, wooden picture frames, maybe even Mattie’s plastic toys, and searches for the hidden key. She goes into the den and rifles through Dad’s desk, but she’s very careful not to disturb his things. She doesn’t want to get caught. Still, she searches thoroughly, but she doesn’t find the key, because it’s not there.

Now she’s near Dad’s desk, probably leaning back against it. Her mind races:
Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?
And her veins chime in:
Need it. Need it. Need it.
She glances at the clock on the wall. She takes the steps, one at a time. She pauses outside the room and debates knocking. She turns the doorknob and pushes hard because I’m blocking the door.

And there she is, looking down at me through this narrow crack. She doesn’t acknowledge Lola. She doesn’t see Mr. Big Butt Bear. She doesn’t even see me, really. But she stares at me, and her stare is panicked.

“Where is it?” she asks.

“Where’s what?”

“You know what.” She nudges the door some more, and I slide over a few inches.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

Lola is quiet. I think Sarah scares her. It’s easy to scare people once they’ve heard a rumor that you’ve killed your best friend. If I killed Lola, I wouldn’t have to hear her stupid stories and put up with her bossy commands. She’d be dead. She’d be silent. The thought makes me feel horrible, yet it is there.

Sarah continues to stare. She nudges the door again. I’m sure there’s going to be a big bruise on my leg in the morning. She says, “Don’t do this,” in a voice that doesn’t really belong to her—the real Sarah hasn’t spoken to me since Ellie died. Still, I hear this Sarah’s voice clearly, and I know what she’s really saying is,
Please don’t make me beg, not in front of Lola.

It’s hard for me. I’m not supposed to have the answer to this question. I’m not supposed to even know what she’s talking about. But we both know I do. We both know that’s the problem with me. I see everything.

“It’s taped underneath the rug in Dad’s office.” My voice is meek, because I know I’m betraying Dad. I’m betraying Mom. I’m betraying me. And worst of all, I’m betraying Sarah.

Sarah shuts the door, and I stare at it real hard. From behind me Lola goes, “Fuck. What’s her problem?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Lola says, like that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever said.

“Yeah, nothing,” I say, because it’s true. The fact is, when Ellie died, the things that used to matter stopped mattering. And now all of this, absolutely all of this, means nothing at all.

D
o
y
o
u remem
b
er when y
o
u were eleven and y
o
u saved that m
o
use fr
o
m a trap set
b
y y
o
ur father? H
o
w y
o
u walked a mile int
o
the w
oo
ds t
o
find a safe place t
o
set it free.

AFTER. JANUARY.

At home, my sisters stare at me like I’m some sort of alien or something, like they’ve never seen someone who doesn’t want to leave the house, who lets days slide by like raindrops down a windowpane. “Sarah?” Chubby Mattie, with her first adult tooth partially grown in, is the bravest. She sits with me each day, watches me be lethargic. Only, she doesn’t know what “lethargic” means, because they don’t learn three-syllable words in kindergarten.

Mattie wears clothes that never match and says ridiculous things like,
Did you know that mermaids live in the ocean and not the pool? And when they poop, their poop floats around them because they don’t have toilets in the ocean.

Today, Mattie carries a Dora the Explorer book tenderly in
one hand. “Can we read?” she asks, and it’s only because she smells like talcum powder, has chunky thighs, and doesn’t ask serious questions that I don’t hesitate to pull her onto my lap and bury my face in the sweetness of her hair.

Mattie loves to read. Was born to read. I love to listen to Mattie read. The way her voice rises two octaves above everyone else’s. The way her words collide—an endless train of sounds that doesn’t require breath.

But today when Mattie reads, I cannot listen, because Mom is yelling at Dad, their raised voices spilling out of their bedroom.

“We’re not helping her” is what Mom says.